The Great Trouble (2 page)

Thumbless Jake was right about one thing, though. Fisheye Bill Tyler wanted to control whatever he thought belonged to him—pickpockets, petty thieves, housebreakers.

And me.

I stormed away, sweating, grimy, and wet. You might say I was mired in my own murky thoughts. Next thing I knew, I almost had my head taken off by something hurtling down from the sky—aimed right at me.

“Halloo, Eel,” a voice called. “Watch out!”

I jumped back. At first I was afraid the stone arch above me had chosen this day to crumble into the river. Everyone knew Blackfriars Bridge wouldn’t last much longer without repairs. But stones didn’t screech like the earsplitting sound that filled the air.

Eeeyow!

Splash!

“For you, Eel!”

I looked up. Only one mudlark had orange hair. “What are you torturing now, Ned?”

Before me, the strange creature yowled again, making wild splashes as it struggled to stay afloat. All at once it disappeared. The tide was coming up now, and I lunged, moving into the flow of the river.

“Let it be, why don’t you?” Ned hollered with cruel delight. “Let’s see if it can swim.”

I tried to scoop the creature out. It lashed at me, hard. “Ouch! That was my arm.”

I almost left it to drown. I didn’t fancy getting scratched to shreds and having my arms turn bright red from dirty wounds. Last winter, another mudlark, a lad of only eight, had nearly lost his foot after stepping on a piece of sharp glass.

Then I remembered my old muslin bag, which I used for carrying odd bits of rope and pieces of coal. Maybe I could catch the creature in that.

“C’mon now,” I urged, slipping the bag off my shoulder and holding it out with both hands.

At first it splashed and squealed and fought something fierce. I couldn’t get near it. Then it disappeared under the oily surface again. In a flash I reached below and scooped the sodden creature up into my bag. “Gotcha!”

Wading to the riverbank, I held the bag tight against my body and peered inside. A pair of bright green eyes—green as a queen’s emeralds—stared back at me out of a mass of bedraggled black fur.

I grinned. “You fight hard for such a scrawny animal. Now be still and I’ll rub you dry. You should be grateful I came along when I did, Little Queenie.”

I looked up to see Ned still leaning over the side of the bridge. “You are a nasty one. What’d you wanna do that for?”

“Aw, don’t go soft on me, Eel. It was just a bit of mischief.”

A bit of mischief
. I wondered what other mischief Ned had been up to lately. Maybe he’d been the one to betray me to Fisheye. Ned could probably be bought for the price of a hot meat pie or a pint of cider.

In my arms the tiny cat shivered. Then, as if suddenly realizing she was safe, she tried to bury herself under the crook of my elbow.

“Ah, Little Queenie, take my advice and don’t trust boys—or anyone,” I told her, wrapping the bag around her more snugly and tucking her under my arm. “Luckily, you’re safe with me. I’m taking you back to the Lion, where you can start earning your keep catchin’ rats. I felt one ticklin’ my toes just the other night.”

For answer, she began to purr.

On my way back to the Lion, I passed through Covent Garden, where the flower sellers were just setting up their stalls. Clutches of girls were busy tying violets into bunches, laughing and gossiping as they worked. The streets were
already a bustle of carts and wagons piled high with vegetables, chickens, cheese, and fruit from the countryside.

The smell of frying fish, potatoes, and onions drifted toward me, making my stomach growl. It brought me back to last winter, when just the smell of frying onions could make me almost faint with hunger.

Then I relaxed and smiled a little. Those days were gone. I had a situation now, a good one. When I got back to Broad Street, I would have bread, cheese, and a cool dipper of good water waiting for me in my tiny corner in the cellar of the Lion Brewery.

I moved quickly, my cap pulled low, my old shoes squelching on the cobblestones. I’d let my guard down these last few months since I’d come to the Lion. Jake’s words were a warning: I needed to keep a sharp lookout from now on. Fisheye had spies everywhere: pickpockets mostly, and the gang of petty thieves who did his dirty work for him.

He won’t think to look for me on Broad Street, or anywhere else near the Golden Square park in Soho
, I tried to convince myself as I headed north. Fisheye didn’t frequent that neighborhood much. He would expect me to be keeping low in the crowded slums—we called them rookeries—of Southwark, south of the river.

And he won’t find what I’ve hidden
. I had to make sure of that. That’s what mattered most.

The little cat squirmed and clawed every time a horse neighed or a dog barked close by. Sometimes she held her
tiny mouth on my arm and bit hard. “Stop it or I’ll let you down under the wheels of the next cart,” I warned.

But, of course, I never would.

I was about to cross Broad Street to the Lion Brewery when I spotted the white face of Mrs. Lewis staring up at me from the open window of her cellar. “Hullo, Mrs. Lewis. Baby wake you early?”

“Before it was light. Poor Fanny. The wee thing has it comin’ out both ends.” She nodded at the bucket she held, which she’d just finished dumping in the cesspool in the cellar.

Through the window, I could see that the cesspool—that deep, smelly pit where all the chamber pots were emptied—was almost full. Time for the night-soil men to come round and empty it. Thumbless Jake had told me he’d once done a stint as a night-soil man.

“That life weren’t for me, Eel,” he said with a shake of his head. “I heard of one poor lad who fell in a cesspool and couldn’t get out. Nasty way to die, that was. Now, I know this old river don’t smell like roses, but at least out here I got the sky above me.”

Mrs. Lewis put her bucket down and sighed. “If it keeps up, I might call round for the doctor.”

“Dr. Snow?” I asked.

Her brows knit. “I never heard of him. We call Dr. William Rogers when we needs a doctor.”

“Dr. Snow lives on Sackville Street. He’s a smart one, Mrs. Lewis. I’ve been tending his animals all summer,” I said, unable to keep the pride from my voice. “He’s what you call a real scientist. Does all sorts of experiments.”

“You don’t say?”

“Dr. Snow has learned to put animals—and even people—to sleep for short periods of time with a special gas, so as they won’t feel pain,” I explained. “He made a grizzly bear that needed a tooth pulled go to sleep, and even eased the queen’s pain when she gave birth to Prince Leopold last year.”

“If he’s doctoring giant grizzlies and Queen Victoria herself, he must be a clever one.” She wiped her forehead with the tip of her apron and picked up her bucket. “Well, I’d best be getting back upstairs before Fanny wakes.”

“Give my regards to Constable Lewis,” I said politely. “And I hope Annie Ribbons don’t get sick.”

“Is that what you call my girl?” Mrs. Lewis smiled. “She do like to collect ribbons and threads, I’ll say that. She’s already a better seamstress than me. But, goodness, you children and your nicknames! Seems like no child around the Golden Square ever gets called by ’is true name.”

Mrs. Lewis put a hand to her back, as though it ached, which it probably did on account of the buckets she carried from the second floor down to the cellar. “I’ve always been curious, Eel. What’s your real name?”

I grinned. “I’ll never tell, Mrs. Lewis.”

And I wouldn’t. Especially now that Fisheye could be closin’ in on me. More than ever, I had to be like an eel.

I said goodbye and turned on my heel to head across the street.

“Eel! Watch where you’re goin’, you clumsy lad!” Florrie Baker jumped aside, but I had to reach out and steady myself on the Broad Street pump to keep from sprawling to the cobblestones. I squeezed Little Queenie tight to keep from dropping her.

“Sorry.” I grinned into the second pair of green eyes I’d seen that morning. Though I wasn’t about to tell Florrie Baker she had anything in common with a half-drowned cat—not if I wanted to avoid getting knocked down for real. “You’re up early. Fetchin’ water for your mum?”

“That I am.” She wrinkled her nose. “You been at the river, ain’t you? You got the stink of the Thames about you. And whatever is making your bag wriggle like that?”

Just then a freckle-faced boy came up behind Florrie, leading a pony and a small cart. He stopped and cleared his throat. “Beggin’ your pardon, Florrie. Can I have a turn at the pump? I need to get to Hampstead and back this morning.”

“Go right ahead, Gus, unless Eel here wants a turn first,” said Florrie. She picked up her bucket and moved aside.

“Not me. At the Lion we get water delivered from the
New River Company, and we have our own well,” I said, pushing the cat more firmly under my arm so she wouldn’t wriggle so much. “Besides, I like the Warwick Street pump water better. Can’t say exactly why.”

Gus stepped up to fill his jug, not taking his eyes off Florrie. I jabbed her in the ribs and whispered, “One of your admirers?”

Florrie giggled. “Now don’t you say anything against Gus. ’E’s a steady boy—has a job as a runner at the Eley Brothers factory down the street. And thoughtful too. Even brings me flowers sometimes.”

Flowers? Was Florrie the sort of girl who liked flowers? The most I’d ever given her was a pencil.

Florrie stepped closer and tried to peer into my bag. “Now let’s see what you got in here.”

I peeled the bag open to reveal the little cat’s wet head. Florrie laughed. “So, are you rescuin’ kittens now, or is this creature for that famous Dr. Snow you’re always goin’ on about?”

“Dr. Snow mostly keeps guinea pigs, mice, frogs, and rabbits these days,” I told her. “I’m gonna raise Little Queenie up as a ratter at the Lion.”

I paused. “Unless … that is … maybe you’d like her.”

Florrie grinned. “Our Jasper would claw her pretty face to pieces. Besides, we can’t take on another mouth to feed, even a cat. Mum has her hands full trying to feed a family of five.

“I’m goin’ to be helpin’ Mum out, though, soon
enough.” She looked serious now. “It’s been settled. I’m to go into service in a fortnight.”

“You are? But where?”

“Worried you won’t see me ever?” she teased. “Don’t fret. I’ll be working for a nice lady and her elderly father in North London, not too far away. Close enough to walk home on my half day off to see all my old friends.”

“What will you do?”

“Where do all girls start? I’m to be the scullery maid. But before long, mark my words, I’ll be housemaid in charge of everything,” she told me confidently. “I’m twelve, after all, thirteen come next winter. It’s time I did my part.”

“So … so I guess this means you’ll leave the ragged school?”

“I was lucky to go this long. Nancy only went to school till she was ten.” She pulled a small, dog-eared sketchbook from her pocket and giggled. “I’ll draw you pictures of all the fancy dishes the fine folks eat.”

I grinned, though I wondered if she’d have time for that. I’d seen scullery maids, their hands swollen and red from all that washing up. “Maybe you can sketch Little Queenie for me someday. Once she’s properly dried off, that is.”

“I will,” she promised, slipping her sketchbook back into her pocket.

Across the way, the front door of the Lion opened. The business day was starting.

“I’d best get this little one somethin’ to nibble on before
I start work,” I told Florrie. “Don’t want to be late or I’ll catch trouble.”

“Can I come feed Dr. Snow’s animals with you today?” she asked. “I haven’t seen them yet, and soon I won’t have the chance.”

“Meet me here later,” I agreed. “I can’t go until I’m done with work at the Lion and sweepin’ up for Mr. Griggs.”

“I swear, Eel, you’re the busiest lad in Soho,” said Florrie. “What do you do with all your extra tin? You certainly don’t use it to buy clothes.”

Florrie was my best friend. Only friend, really. But I hadn’t even told her why I needed money, or why I didn’t ever get clothes or treats for myself.

“Florrie, here’s something I
would
like to do with my money,” I said suddenly. “I’d like to buy you an Italian ice.”

The chance to see Florrie Baker smile was definitely worth a penny.

Thursday, August 31

“It’s like breathin’ soup,” Abel Cooper complained, same as he had every morning for a week. “Hot, stinkin’ soup.”

“Any errands for later, Mr. Cooper?” I asked the foreman as I mopped the brewery floor.

“In this heat? No, I’ll not send you out. There’s bad air out there. Poison,” he declared, wiping his forehead. “Bad air brings trouble.”

“What kind of trouble, sir?”

“Disease, lad. Since ancient times, folks have known that bad air—what they call miasma—is the cause of disease. And that’s what we’ve got now: noxious, poisonous air. It smells like … well, you know.”

I did. We all did. “Mr. Cooper, exactly which diseases does miasma cause?”

“You name it: measles, scarlet fever, smallpox, and, worst of all, the blue death,” he answered. “It’s obvious when you think on it, ain’t it? Bad smells cause bad things.”

I nodded, though I wondered how it was that Thumbless Jake, Ned, and the rest of the mudlarks were still walking around. Seemed like we all should be laid low by now from inhaling that filthy, smelly air that rose off the Thames. Especially since so much of London’s garbage and human and animal waste got dumped into it.

As for the heat, well, that didn’t bother me so much. I had too many bad memories of winter, with its tentacles of icy fog that bite into you and won’t let go. But there was no denying it was hot. Hot from dawn till dark. And not a dry heat, like you find in an oven. No, it was hot in a thick, wet sort of way, as if the sun were a giant who’d aimed his moist, stinky breath on us all.

The whole city reeked of fish, rotten fruit, horse droppings, and worse. The thick, foul air stung our eyes. Each morning the sky turned a murky yellow. That was day. It stayed that way till, hours later, the sickly yellow sky faded away to a hot, muddy gray. That was night.